


Take A Deep Breath As We Go

by alex_hurricane



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Crossdressing, Drug Abuse, Eventual Smut, Gender Issues, Genderqueer, Grief/Mourning, Hiatus, Other, Post-Prison, Religion, Religious Guilt, Roman Catholicism, Sexual Assault, Violence, i am an actual adult i have better things to do than write garbage, it's actually not that bad but the plot ugh, non-binary, oh my god why the fuck did i write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_hurricane/pseuds/alex_hurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard’s not doing so well on a journey out of the hole of mourning he’s fallen into after Elena’s death. His job is shit. The meds aren’t working so well. The booze gets more expensive (or maybe he needs more than before?). And besides Mikey, he’s lonely as fuck. All that, and the issue of being mostly-a-dude in a gal’s body, is hanging over his head like heavy storm clouds waiting to bring the shitstorm of his life upon him.</p><p>It starts with a flash of lightning that leaves sunspots of hazel eyes in his own.</p><p>Frank's recovering from the darkest part of his life: prison. Well, maybe he wasn’t anyone's bitch, but he's had a hard time nonetheless. He’s trying to get back on his feet with the priceless help of family and old friends, but knowing his luck, he’s about to step into some fucked up shit, knee deep.</p><p>And he isn’t that wrong.</p><p>A dress. A pair of heels. An art show. A few glasses of champagne. A few more than enough pills of anxiety meds. A dark New York alley. A creep. A walk at midnight. This is all it takes to set things in motion and change their lives in a way they both would never expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. See you on a dark night

**Author's Note:**

> so i decided to put gerard in my prom attire, and apparently this happened, whoops. sorry, gee.
> 
> i’m making this up as i go, so there’s gonna be updates to the tags, but don’t worry, i have a (vague) idea to where this is all going. the trigger warnings are gonna be on top of every chapter but otherwise i won’t spoil. i’ll do my best to update every week or so. every constructive comment is appreciated. the chapter titles are all song quotes; if you’d like to check them out, enjoy the journey through my music library/weekly earworms. xøalex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for alcohol & drug abuse, sexual harassment, assault, and physical violence. stay safe guys! xøalex

Deep down he knows he shouldn’t do it tonight. He should always believe his hunches, but being the stubborn asshole he is, he doesn’t listen to his gut, even though it’s always right.

So he puts on his best dress and heels, does his best makeup and hair, and takes a taxi to the art gallery.

The art collection is quite good: several paintings done in oil, with vivid colors and bold outlines with recurring Far East themes - koi fish, mandalas and such. The artist himself is a very handsome, tall Californian young man. Gerard would jump his bones, but: a) he’s not into one night stands, b) he’s not looking for a relationship right now either, c) he’s too stoned and lazy to even try.

See, before leaving, he got a bout of crippling anxiety about showing in public in a dress, so he _may_ have taken an extra Xanax. And he _may_ have pushed it down with two glasses of free champagne.

The evening becomes a pleasant blur of colors: the vibrant blue of paintings, the neutral white of walls, the gentle yellow of lighting, the courteous black of suit jackets, the comfy brown of floor panels, the soothing teal of his dress. He’s simply enjoying himself, a rare occasion, really, especially in this attire. He feels eyes on him, but instead of making him anxious, it makes him even more content in his own skin.

Well, yeah, it might not have been _one_ extra Xanax, but hey, he deserves to feel good. And the champagne is just delicious, and goes down as easy as juice.

It stops to be fun a bit, when he almost enters the men’s restroom, and then almost falls to the floor getting up from the toilet. He doesn’t even remember how long did he sit on it. It might have been a minute. It might have been ten. This means it’s time to go home. He wavers out of the gallery still smiling, but...

It’s not easy to walk in high heels. It’s not easy to walk in high heels when you’re not used to it. It’s not easy to walk in high heels when you’re a little high and a little drunk. It’s not easy to walk in high heels when you’re too high and too drunk to call a cab and you live like, three miles away, and it’s fucking dark, and the streets smell like rotting garbage and it’s really fucking distracting. And you can’t see shit. Because it’s fucking dark. And orange. And you can’t fucking walk because of fucking high fucking heels, _fuck_.

It’s also not easy to run in high heels. Hell, it’s fucking impossible. He’s too high to run even in flat shoes. That’s why he lets himself get crowded by a creepy, intimidating guy in a dark alley. He should have believed his hunch.

* * *

 

Frank’s existential crisis on the midnight hour is interrupted by a strange commotion of events he would later refuse to believe being true. It’s the same his whole life: once he thinks it maybe has toned down a bit and he has a little bit of room to breathe, shit goes down.

Like, literally. For example, when his parents split, after a few very difficult months of dealing, once he caught some wind and started getting better at school, the pipes burst and the whole house got flooded with shit. They had to move away to his aunt for a few weeks and, of fucking course, his grades dropped, because she had three little loud shits for kids and a loud yipping mutt. And that’s just one of the less hardcore shit he had to get through. Let’s not get started on his last two and a half years. He doesn’t even want to think about it. He does think about it, but he doesn’t want to, obviously.

He actually did this evening, too. His intense, unwanted session of thinking led him out of the shoebox he sometimes called affectionately his apartment, and downtown. And of course, him getting literal air to breathe has led to shit going down.

The first thing that catches his eye is a teal ruffle fluttering in the almost non-existent wind. The artificial orange streetlight is barely illuminating the dark alleyway in which he saw that, but the movement is something that the human eye is designed to see first. The random fact is gone from Frank’s head faster than it came, because the ruffle belongs to a dress, and the dress belongs to a girl, and the girl is being crowded up against the wall by a large figure.

Danger. The girl is in danger. _Maybe she’s a hooker._ She’s dressed too nice to be a hooker. _Maybe it’s her boyfriend._ It’s New York for God’s sake, it’s dangerous. Not exactly a seedy area, but still. _Maybe he should leave this alone._ He should do something.

The rapid flow of his thoughts is almost dizzying in its speed. Yeah, this time he’s thinking. _This time._

He crosses the empty street and approaches the alleyway as fast and stealthily as he can. The closer he gets, the more he can hear:

“Oh come on baby, don’t you want to have a good time? Come on, let me have some fun with you” the large figure, a dude, breathes out, trying to be seductive, when all the fucker is, is a fucking molester. _Or a boyfriend. Or a john._

“No. Let me go...” the girl rasps out weakly. Frank decides he’s not a boyfriend. Nor a john. He’s now just a few feet away and they haven’t noticed him yet.

The dude forcefully grabs her hands. Frank sees red.

“Hey, how about we go to my place? My car is just around the corner. Come on. Baby. You’re so pretty. Let me touch you. Let me touch your pretty little bo-“

The dude stops mid-sentence, when Frank taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey, you!” he yells and, not waiting for an answer, punches him in the nose.

Frank may be tiny, but he’s a tough motherfucker with a solid right hook.

The dude falls limply on his side like a bag of rice. Frank doesn’t even flinch, not even when his knuckles start to bleed, he’s too busy trying to burn a hole in the dude’s body with his death glare. And the girl just stares at him with her mouth open terrified, like she didn’t register what just happened.

The dude clutches his nose. Apparently it’s bleeding. Fucking _good_.

After a few beats he raises his head, gives Frank a terrified look, gets up and bolts out of the alleyway.

He doesn't run after him, instead he looks up at the girl. She’s taller than him. There’s still adrenaline buzzing through his veins.

“Hey, you okay? Want me to chase him down?” He asks her. It comes out fast and tense. She closes her mouth and shakes her head hesitantly.

“Are you okay? D’you want me to call the police?” He asks her again. There’s still tension in his voice. He needs to calm down. He needs to be the calm one.

Only now that he notices her looks. She’s dressed really nice. She sports a teal, knee-length dress, a black suit jacket, light green heels and a matching purse hanging limp from her shoulder. The briefest thought crosses his mind that the color might be called mint. She has black hair almost reaching her shoulders, a really nice round face with complimenting makeup, and these ridiculously huge dark eyes. She most definitely is not a hooker.

She is, although, shaking, and he’s not really sure if it’s from the cold or from emotion, and is still gaping at him terrified, like he’s the one who assaulted her. Then he realizes she never responded to his question. He’s been to busy checking her out. An instant wave of guilt washes over him.

“Hey, I just want to help you. Do I call the police? D’you want that?” He tries to ask soothingly, again, but it comes out strained and shaky, again.

Again, she doesn’t respond. She just stares at him, her gaze going right through him.

And that’s when he realizes. Once his eyes adjust to the dark setting, he can make out more details. Like her totally blown pupils.

“Oh. I guess you don’t want the police. Maybe I’ll just call you a cab? D’you have somewhere to stay?” His questions seem to bounce off, like he’s talking to the wall. But hey, at least he’s calmed down a bit.

Then, something in her eyes change, like she’s suddenly lost control or strength, and she slumps down the wall, just like that, with almost no warning.

Frank is at her side in a heartbeat. She can’t just faint on him, can she? _She could, actually._ But, _thank God_ , her eyes are still half open.

“Hey, hey, hey! Are you okay? Do you need help? Should I call the ambulance?” He shakes her arms lightly trying to get a response, something, _anything._

She closes her eyes and shakes her head with visible effort.

 _Finally,_ he thinks and breathes out with relief.

“Okay, so I’ll call you a cab then. Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Yeah...” She whispers. Well, that’s progress.

“Do you know the address?”

“Yeah. M’fine.” She murmurs, opens her eyes and again looks Frank in the eye with her piercing gaze.

She looks afraid, but not from the assault, but like she’s afraid of the future. Like she’s searching an answer to the meaning of life in his eyes.

Maybe it’s just because she’s high.

Yet it feels like there’s more to this gaze. And to all of this. This evening. These events. This meeting. It feels like a night that changes lives. The whole world, even. It feels like destination being fulfilled. Like a religious revelation. Like a profound discovery that would change the history of humanity. Like the beginning of the end of the world. 

 _Like founding a soulmate_ , adds a quiet, hopeful voice in the back of his head.

He calls the cab company barely managing to look down to dial the number. Then he gently helps her up from the ground and leads her out the alleyway back to the main road. She doesn’t let go of his hand, actually _clutches_ it and once they’re by the curb waiting, she turns to Frank again and stares in his eyes more. He can’t help but stare back.

After a few minutes that feel like forever and a blink of an eye at the same time, the cab pulls up to the curb. He helps her into the car, makes sure she gives her address to the driver, makes sure he does _not_ remember her address, and pays the driver in case she doesn’t have any cash.

As the cab drives away, she’s still staring at him through the window.

He doesn’t know what the actual fuck has just happened. His head is fucking empty for answers. All there is are those dark huge eyes.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Wow. What a fucking night” he sighs out loud to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a huge heat wave right now, it’s 6am and it’s already 24 celsius degrees, and like 30 in my room, and it looks like this is gonna be the hottest day of the year. keep your thumbs up so i make through it and upload the next chapter. if not, i’d like a granite tomb. oh and play helena on my wake. 
> 
> also if you guess who famous makes a cameo in this chapter i’ll give you a cookie.
> 
> if i'm still alive. xøalex


	2. Oh, what a cold dark world it is to walk through alone with a fear filled head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've managed to squeeze a nine inch nails _and_ a leathermouth reference in one line, how 'bout that, bitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for drug abuse and mentions of sexual assault and alcohol abuse, stay safe guys xøalex

He wakes up with a massive headache, a vile taste in his dry mouth and a vague memory of something hazel-colored.

Opening his eyes might blind him, like, permanently, so he knows better than that and tries to feel out where in the fuck did he end up this time.

He’s lying somewhere soft, a bed, he guesses. There’s no sound in his nearest vicinities, not a movement, nor a breath, so he guesses he’s alone. He’s cold, but he feels like he’s still dressed at least.

There’s also no sound beside the street life coming from outside the window. The place doesn’t smell at least.

Suddenly there’s a muffled buzz on his right, like a phone maybe? He tries to groan, but it comes out as a pathetic hoarse... something. Sound. Whatever.

He carefully opens the eye he assumes is more shadowed than the other and is relieved to discover he’s in his own bedroom.

He’s also still wearing the teal dress.

Gerard sits upright as the memory of last night hits him like a freight train, all at once, with a choked cry that’s half from horror, half from hangover headache.

The phone lies forgotten buzzing on the bottom of his purse.

* * *

 

It’s almost noon and Gerard still isn’t picking up the phone.

Mikey has been sneaking out to the bathroom every twenty minutes to call him again and again, and he isn’t picking up the phone.

They’ve established a routine, that’s more complied to by Mikey and less by Gerard, that he calls every day about 9am, wakes him up and motivates him to get out from bed.

Every day, Mikey calls him, and almost every day, Gerard picks up all hoarse and whiny, dismisses him and sleeps till noon, as Mikey suspects, but he can’t know for sure while he’s at work.

There are better days, on which he’s just whiny, but apparently obeys and gets up to watch cartoons in his pajamas and maybe go grocery shopping with an obligatory visit to Starbucks, and ultimately to work reluctantly on his nearest work deadline.

There are worse days, on which he doesn’t pick up, at first. He usually calls or texts back though, when the sunlight wakes him up.

Today it’s a quarter to noon and Gee _still isn’t picking up the phone_.

Mikey’s anxiety meds aren’t working as good as they do usually today.

_Fuck it,_ he thinks and when lunchtime comes, he gets in his car and drives to Gerard’s.

The apartment is quiet as he enters. With that, he’s expecting to see him still sleeping, or not at all. The thought of Gerard not being here is horrible, as it means one thing: he got shitfaced again and ended up passing out at a “friend’s” place, and will come back in the late afternoon wearing sunglasses inside and reeking of cheap liquor. Mikey told him not to do that again, as his so-called “friends” are just a bunch of drunks and junkies who do no good to Gee. They call themselves party animals, but most of them are on a downward spiral heading straight to hell through an overdose or suicide. He knows an addict when he sees one.

He’s afraid one day he’ll get a call from the police station, or worse, the hospital, to collect his wreck of a brother after being robbed, beat up, or even _raped_ by one of those worthless fucks. And Gee knows Mikey is worried about him, that’s why he made a promise not to meddle in this social circle anymore, but then again, Mikey knows Gee is a stubborn little fuck who will not do as he’s told _and_ isnot in the best state of mind right now.

At first the bedroom seems to be empty, but a quiet whimper from behind the bed gives Gerard away. Mikey circles it and sees something that will haunt his nightmares for _years_.

Gerard is curled up against the wall. He’s wearing a dress, _a motherfucking dress_ , and _tights_ , what the _fuck_ , and there’s a purse and _heels_ beside him. There are streaks of make-up down his cheeks and he’s staring into the distance, crying quietly and not noticing Mikey at all.

He’s down on his knees in a flash, gently hugging his big brother.

“Gee?” he asks quietly.

Gerard freezes at the sound of his voice.

“Gee, what happened?”

Gerard cries out by his ear and shakes his head.

“Shh, I’m here for you. What’s up? Tell me what happened, Gee.” he demands, trying to sound gentle and managing to solely because he’s talking quietly.

Gerard only cries out louder and puts his head on Mikey’s shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here. Okay. Shh. Don’t cry.” he tries to soothe him with a steady murmur of reassurance, but Gee only calms down a tiny bit when Mikey puts his hand on his head to pet his soft hair. Only then he hugs him back, putting his face into Mikey’s neck.

Gee stays like this for several minutes, clinging onto Mikey like he’s the only thing keeping him alive. Then he breathes out something that sounds vaguely like “Mikey” and clears his throat.

“I got jumped.” he whispers into Mikey’s neck.

Mikey freezes.

“You got  _what_?” he asks horrified.

“I got jumped” he whines and cries out again. “I went to this art show and when I was going back some guy tried to...” he trails off and whimpers into Mikey’s now damp neck.

“Some guy tried to _what_...?” Mikey asks and then suddenly realizes. He grabs Gerard’s arms and pulls him out of the hug to look in his eyes. “Oh my God, are you okay? Gee?”

“I,” Gerard’s breath catches in his throat as he avoids looking Mikey in the face and he has to breathe deeply for a moment. “I think someone saved me.”

“You _think_? Why would you...” he pauses. “You got fucked up again, didn’t you? Yeah. You got drunk. I can’t believe this! You- okay.”

He stops talking in fear of going too far. He facepalms and has to breathe for a moment to calm down.

“From now on, you’re not allowed to go out in drag alone, okay, Gee? Do you see what happens then? You’re making yourself vulnerable. I cannot afford to let something happen to you, you’re all I have, you dumbass.”

Gerard pouts like a sad puppy.

“You just don’t want me out in a dress.”

“No! It’s not like that at all! I’m just insanely worried about you like, all the time. If something were to happen to you, I wouldn’t forgive myself, okay? It’s just, you tend to do dumb things that put you up to danger, and you cannot think here I’m suppressing your personality or gender identity or whatever, I just want you to be safe. But then you go and get drunk _while wearing a dress._ Someone could’ve _raped you_. Someone actually _attempted to_ last night! Just, ugh! Don’t you see that? Gee, you need meds to get out of bed! What made you think it’s okay for you to go out, by yourself, and get drunk?!”

The sad puppy look on Gerard’s face could break hearts, but what breaks Mikey’s heart more is the fact that Gee isn’t treating this half as serious as he should. He is not okay and Mikey just want to protect him from the big bad world that is out to get him the moment Mikey’s not looking. This is just for now, he tells himself, until Gee picks himself up and gets a good grip on the life he could have, if he just tried.

“M’sorry. And it was just a little champagne, okay.”

No, totally not fucking okay, Mikey thinks.

“It had to have been more if you don’t even know what really happened. So who saved you? Superman?” Mikey asks ironically.

“I don’t know. A guy, I guess.” Gerard shrugs.

“You guess. Jesus, you just... you are just... you know what, whatever. I don’t care as long as you’re okay.” Mikey’s really had enough, and if he keeps worrying, he might start yelling at Gerard, so busying his hands at the moment is actually a pretty good idea. “Do you want your pills? Coffee? Some food maybe?”

Gerard groans loudly because apparently he remembered about his hangover.

“Yeah. Coffee. Cigarettes. Cereal? And a handful of aspirin would be great.”

“Okay. Get changed maybe? It’s weird seeing you in a skirt, and I imagine it’s not really comfortable as well. I’m gonna go start on that coffee.” Mikey says and then retreats from the bedroom.

He sets up the coffee machine going, pulls out two mugs, the cereal and a bowl, and then goes to the bathroom to fetch Gee his meds.

He finds the aspirin and puts two of the pills on the counter, then goes for the Xanax. His hand trembles a little at the bottle. There isn’t much left there, and Gee is on a higher dose than Mikey is. Maybe half a pill won’t hurt? He’s got so much going on, and he got extra stressed out today. Gerard won’t even notice that one is missing.

He shakes out two pills. He sets one on the counter next to the aspirins, and bites the other one in half. He swallows one of the pieces, washes it down with a handful of tap water, wraps the other piece in a napkin and stows it away in his pocket. It’d be weird if Gee found half a pill in his bottle, right? 

He goes out to the kitchen with the pills from the counter and busies himself with Gerard’s breakfast - well, technically lunch - and the said culprit emerges from his bedroom a few minutes later in worn-off pajama pants, a random black t-shirt and a face free of make-up.

“You finally look like yourself.” Mikey smiles a little to him.

“Oh, fuck you, Mikeyway” Gee grumbles back.

“And you sound like yourself!” he exclaims maybe a little too cheerfully.

“Shut up and fuck off, where’s my coffee? And my cigarettes?” he sits by his kitchen table.

“Your coffee is coming right up and your cigarettes are right in front of you, Geeway.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Do you need glasses or are you just dumb?”

“I’m hangover and caffeine deprived and I really need a fucking smoke, okay. You don’t need to tease me, you emo toothpick.”

And just like that, in a few moments, from a whimpering mess with ruined mascara on the bedroom floor, Gerard’s back to his regular persona. Mikey doesn’t know whether to treat his ability to change moods like gloves as a somewhat wonderful virtue, or as a really upsetting symptom of an upcoming nervous breakdown that will land his big brother in a looney bin. For now he settles for getting the damn coffee done. He pours it into two cups and settles them in front of Gerardand himself.

“Here. And like you’re the one to talk, goth vampire princess.”

“Call me a princess one more time and I’ll snap you in half, and oh _fuck,_ that’s good” Gerard sips on the coffee and gets a look of bliss on his face.

“Like you’re the one for violence” Mikey chuckles.

“Like you’re the one to know” Gerard answers vaguely and busies himself with lighting a cigarette.

“Can I bum one?” Mikey asks.

“Yeah, whatever.”

They smoke and sip their coffee for a while in silence. But this time it’s comfortable and for a moment it seems like everything is just about okay, and Mikey doesn’t have to come back to Eyeball for the rest of his shift that will probably last much longer than he’s scheduled, and Grandma isn’t dead, and there aren’t any prescription drugs on the table waiting for Gee to swallow them, and Gee didn’t almost get raped yesterday by some shitbag, and he doesn’t have to worry about Gee’s mental health, or their parents finding out how bad exactly they both are at adult life.

The moment is gone as he reaches the filter in his cigarette. He puts it out and wants to talk to Gee, wants to just stay and talk for real about everything that’s been going on and needs to be said, but just right then his phone rings. He doesn’t need to look at the screen to know who’s calling.

“Why yes, hello Alex. What is so important that you’re calling me in the middle of my sacred lunch break?” he asks in a bored voice.

“Mikey, just get down here, _please_ , you know you’re my last resort. You’re the only one who’s competent _and_ capable of dealing with this shit when I just can’t, _please_.” Alex starting a call with pleading Mikey to get back to work is nothing new.

“That’s a really nice way to say no one else would take this shift when there’s overtime guaranteed, but I’m actually kind of in the middle of a family emergency right now, so if you could just kindly fuck off ‘till my lunch break is over, that’d be great. I’ll be back at one. Ish.” He swirls his dregs of coffee and finishes them in one sip.

“Mikeyway, that is no way to talk to your boss.” Alex tries to sound motherly, or fatherly, or teacherly, but just ends up sounding pathetic.

“Oh please, we both know you wouldn’t fire me even if I called your mother fatter than Jupiter. You yourself just said you need me, literally, quote _you’re my last resort_ end of quote. I’ll repeat: I’ll be back at one, ish. Hold on to your tits until then, Saavedra.”

“Yeah, whatever, you lanky bastard. Say hi to Gerard for me.”

“How did you... okay, yeah, whatever, bye.”

“See ya.” The call ends with a click.

Mikey sighs heavily and stands up.

“I gotta get back to work, bro. Alex says hi.”

“Hi Alex” Gerard answers absently. He’s halfway through his cereal and his coffee is long gone.

“I’m going, Gee.”

“Oh, okay” he looks up at Mikey and smiles faintly. Then he gets up and hugs him, not just as a goodbye, but also as a thank you for helping him through the mess that is his life. He doesn’t need to say it though, Mikey gets it. He gets Gerard like no one else in the world.

“Have a good day at work, Mikes. Bye.”

“I’ll try to get off at five and I’ll drop by then. Bye Gee.” They smile at each other and then he’s out of the apartment.

He’s feeling better every minute, and maybe a little giddy on the way back to work. He’s still driving though, so he’s glad the other half of the pill is tucked away safely in his pocket.

Then he proceeds to get through his shift high like nobody’s business.

* * *

 

His head hurts less, he’s no longer thirsty or hungry, or caffeine, or nicotine deprived, though he could really use a drink right now. Maybe a few drops of whiskey in his next coffee. Yup, sounds like a good idea.

Yet he cannot stop thinking about it, now that Mikey moved the topic. The longer he’s thinking, the more details he can make out of last night.

He’s pretty sure it _wasn’t_ Superman that saved him. At least he doesn’t recall a tall, buff guy in spandex with the face of a model. Even if it really was Superman, then it wasn’t _Superman_ Superman, but rather Clark Kent.

No, this is ridiculous. He needs to stop thinking about his rescuer as a comic book character. He wasn’t a comic book character. He was a real human being.

At least he thinks it was a he. Let’s assume right now that it was, indeed, a he.

He was short. Kind of a lot shorter than Gerard in heels, who temporarily constituted to a height of a rather tall man. Almost as tall as Mikey. So it’s safe to assume the He was short. He was Caucasian, had dark clothes, and dark hair, and those were short, average Joe short dark hair. He had a low voice. He kept talking to Gerard, though at the time he barely could make out words, how on earth did he manage to get so high? Anyway, He had a low, pleasant voice.

But these are just minor facts Gerard can barely manage to fish out of his blurred memory, that has one thing in it that he remembers crisp and clean.

His eyes.

His wonderful, beautiful hazel eyes. Unsettling, mischievous, to-die-for eyes. They showed so much soul he got lost in them. They felt like peace. Like home.

In the streetlight they seemed to have an orange bleedthrough that looked out of this world. Eyes like these have to belong to an extraordinary person. A person you’d make friends to the grave with. A person you could fall for. A person who could be your soulmate.

Oh God, he wants to find Him.

He _needs_ to find Him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve survived, obviously, but the heat, while somewhat lighter, doesn’t let up. i’m usually okay with it, but this time my flat got so heated, that some hobbits that were passing by yesterday wanted to toss the ring inside through the window.
> 
> so the other day i’ve been dying from the heat on the couch, wearing just underwear, watching a live cabaret show with one eye and solving sudoku with the other, and i came up with lots and lots of plot. like book-length amounts of plot, and boy do i tell you... whoops, shut your face hurricane, you promised no spoilers. whatever. so. that's the kind of a setting that gives me inspiration. tropical heat, underwear, tv in the background and sudoku. who would've thought. if that's creativity then sign me the fuck up.
> 
> and for now i’ve got half the next chapter written and about 2-3 more planned out, and i hope i don’t lose my writing mojo along the way. xøalex
> 
> ps: i finally passed my driving theory test! (on the 5th trial, but still!) yay for me!


	3. Let it sink in for a new beginning

He’s in the middle of a stubble field. There’s nothing more in sight beside fields and fields dragging to horizon; nothing more beside an honest-to-God dilapidated horror movie barn. The dark storm clouds are hanging low over the landscape, racing in an ominous circle over the wooden building. The air is heavy with moisture and the wind is growing stronger, tugging on his hair and clothes.

Suddenly he feels a presence behind him. He turns over, only to see another view of endless empty fields.

And her.

It’s her, from last night. She’s far away, but he knows it’s her.

She’s dressed in pitch black. The wind doesn’t seem to affect her. Every time he blinks, she appears to be closer and closer, even though she’s not moving the slightest, her piercing gaze yet again stuck on his soul.

Time goes on, slowly spilling like sand in hourglass. They just stare at each other. He blinks and blinks, and she’s closer and closer. A couple hundred yards turns into couple tens. He doesn’t seem to stop blinking.

Now he can make out a few details. She’s wearing an ankle-length coat. Her black hair is perfectly set, even in the heavy wind. Her make-up is different that yesterday: this time it’s just the eyes, dark, thick, smoky eyeliner. She looks really androgynous, pale and beautiful and _inhuman_. Like an angel and a demon at the same time.

She keeps getting closer and closer. The sharp wind gets in his eyes and glazes over them with cold tears. His eyelids flutter and with every blink the distance falters.

She’s a few feet away now. He can see now that her dark eyes are a perfect mix of hazel and green, the look intense as ever. He struggles with catching breath, not entirely sure if it’s from the wind or those damn eyes.

The wind stills all at once, leaving a sinister silence in its wake; a calm before the storm. Yet the clouds are still moving.

He shuts his eyes for a longer moment hoping to bring Her closer, because apparently he wants her closer, _what?_

And he doesn’t have to open them to sense she’s in his space, inches away now.

He looks up to see her eyes get a concerned look, dark eyebrows furrowing slightly.

She opens her mouth as if she wants to say something, then hesitates for a moment. Then her lips move, but no sound comes out; it’s not like she didn’t say anything, it’s more like he just couldn’t hear her, like she was put on mute, or like he suddenly lost his hearing.

It starts raining mud.

It stains her dark coat and her perfect hair, it runs down her cheeks and stops on her eyelashes. He can feel heavy drops soaking his clothes, leaving sand in his hair and on his skin. Soon they’re both covered in the grime, and she looks totally ruined.

Her pupils are growing wider and wider.

Then she opens her mouth, and in a low, angelic, harmonic, most beautiful voice in the world says one blessed word:

“Frank.”

*

Well, fuck.

The problem is not that Frank had this dream, even though he rarely dreams. The problem is not that it was about the girl he saved, even though normally it would be about being interrogated by giant two-headed centipedes in police uniforms, or some other similar bullshit. The problem is not that its meaning was quite clear, with a not-really-subtle metaphor for a shitstorm, that only his own fucked up subconscious could came up with. The problem is not that he actually remembered the dream, loud and clear, like it really happened: every detail etched into his retinas permanently like a tattoo, every sensation buzzing just below the surface of his skin, every feeling carved out on the shell of his soul. The problem is not that the dream felt like a prophecy, a quietly discovered truth that’s always been there, just waiting within reach for him to grasp it.

The problem is that he cannot stop thinking about it, and it’s been three days.

Three days. _Three fucking days_ of sulking, when he should be frantically searching for a job, as his get-on-your-feet fund he’s been given by his family is rapidly melting. In the last weeks he’s visited every fast food joint, every tiny coffee shop, every shady Asian restaurant and every other business that even remotely looked like it was hiring for an entry job within the range of a few miles from his apartment, leaving his info, but he’s never heard from any of them. Even from that tiny tobacco store in a shady alley owned by an old Indian guy that had a “currently hiring” sign in the window.

He strongly suspects it has something to do with his total lack of experience at 22 years old, and the tiny little fact that he has to inform every place he’s applying to about being a felon.

Because that’s what he is now. A felon, with no job, no experience, no school. All he has is a family back in Bullshitville, NJ, a heap of old clothes, a tiny hole of an apartment he won’t be able to afford next month and a few miserable notes in his wallet.

And apparently something in his hoodie pocket, because there’s something poking his belly.

He’s been lying face down on his bed for at least an hour, when he came back from a quick grocery run. It was the first time he went out since that damned dream. He internally cried bitter tears when he counted the bills, and realized he can’t even afford cigarettes, if he wants to eat this month. The need for a nicotine hit has been gnawing on his lungs ever since. The pack he has has only seven smokes left, so he figured he’d better keep them for savoring, but he never really understood how bad he’s addicted up until this moment. His fingers are just itching to reach for one and sulk some more, daydreaming about those huge hazel eyes while filling his lungs with the sweet, sweet burn of nicotine filled smoke.

The thought makes him fidget with frustration and then squirm, when something painfully pokes his stomach. He reaches into his hoodie pocket and finds a chain of tiny beads and medals, one of the latter caught between him and the bed in an unfortunate position, causing the thin metal jab his belly.

His rosary.

He must’ve tucked it there a few days earlier. The hoodie has been lying on the chair in the kitchen the whole time. He completely forgot about it. He swore to himself to carry it with him at all times, and now he forgot.

 _Great_ , he groans, as a giant wave of guilt washes over him. The stupid fucking dream is so much on his mind he forgot a promise to the _Mother of God_. How the fuck is he supposed to focus enough to find a job when he forgets something so important?

He takes the rosary out of the pocket, and leans on his elbows on the bed. He slowly moves the beads between his fingers, frowning at them. Forgetting a promise like this is a sin. A regular prayer doesn’t feel like enough here.

Then, just like that, he knows what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one all night long date with wikipedia and one long overdue church visit later, here we are, almost two chapters richer. i wrote them back to back, because i planned this and the next one to be just one, but then it turned out to be much longer than i anticipated. i’m kinda proud of the dream, so you’re welcome to comment. (to either agree with me or prove me wrong, i don’t care, as long as you comment. yup. i’m a comment whore.) xøalex  
> 
> 
> ps: if gerard’s tweet didn’t manage to convince you, i’m telling you: go watch mr robot. it’s almost as good as breaking bad. oooh i should make more bb puns. or maybe even a fic? with gee & frnk cooking meth out in the boonies in a winnebago? gee, cancer-plagued broke family man and unfulfilled chemistry teacher turned drug kingpin, and frnk, school dropout hotheaded junkie drug dealer, being all “yo mr way, bitch”? explosions. giant magnets. accidental port-a-potty baths. porkpie hats.  
> 
> 
> ...oh god, i’m a lunatic. i’m going to shut the fuck up now.


End file.
